


Playing With Fire

by Atalan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Aziraphale has no intention of shutting up and dying, Crowley has definitely played Ace Attorney, Happy Ending, M/M, Michael is the reasonable one, No Bodyswap, Oneshot, Short, actual oneshot, i will die on this hill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 20:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atalan/pseuds/Atalan
Summary: AU. Crowley catches Agnes’s last prophecy instead of Aziraphale getting it. Unfortunately, he was never as good at solving crossword clues and jumps to the exact wrong conclusion...(It's not nearly as angsty as it could be, I promise.)Written for the Ineffable Con Zine, October 2019





	Playing With Fire

They came for Crowley the day after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't. Trust Hastur to make it as painful as possible; Crowley decided there was no shame in losing consciousness for a bit after the crowbar cracked into the back of his head.

He opened his eyes as they were dragging him into their makeshift courtroom, and despite the pounding headache, he couldn't help but laugh.

"Sssseriously?" he managed, trying to put on his usual bravado. "A trial?"

"Traitorszzz get what they deszzzerve," Beelzebub replied from the throne.

"Well, in that case, I object. That's how it works, right? Someone shouts _objection_—"

"Objection overruled," Beelzebub snapped. "You stand accused of destroying a fellow demon—"

"This is about Ligur? Seriously? Ligur, the guy who got taken off damned soul duty for being too nasty?"

"You used _holy water_!" Hastur spat. "Even he wouldn't have done that to you!"

"Oh, come off it, he'd have done it to me _years_ ago if he'd thought of it first!"

"And what about the rest of it?" Dagon put in, smirking toothily. "Disobeying direct orders? Kidnapping our master's son? Conspiring with the enemy to stop Armageddon?"

"I didn't kidnap anyone, there was just a bit of mix-up—"

"And the _angel_?" Beelzebub interrupted, making a face like the word tasted disgusting.

For the first time, Crowley had no comeback. He didn't want to bring Aziraphale into this any more than he had to. Didn't want them to get any ideas about taking additional vengeance...

"He was useful." Crowley tried for a shrug. "Bit gullible, maybe, trusting a demon and all—"

"Oh, don't think you can fool us, Crowley," Beelzebub said, leaning forward. "We know _all_ about you two now. Nice coszzzy little _arrangement_ you've had all theszzze centuries, isn't it?"

Crowley went cold. Beelzebub grinned with cruel satisfaction, while Dagon leered at him, openly gloating.

"What's the point of all this?" Crowley said finally, trying to sound bored. "Look, we all know you're going to toss me into the fire whatever I say. Why bother with all this trial nonsense?"

"Fire?" Hastur repeated, a slow, horrible grin stretching his mouth. "Oh no, Crawly, oh no. Not _fire_, not for you. We thought the punishment should fit the crime, you know."

There was a _ding_. Crowley spun towards the sudden spill of white light from the little-used lift, and watched, open-mouthed, as the Archangel Michael walked towards them, carrying... carrying a jug of crystal-clear water... and suddenly Crowley realised that the old bathtub behind him wasn't just Hell's usual bizarre choice of decor.

His insides turned to jelly. He had to clamp his teeth together to keep from screaming. His heart gave a terrible leap of regret and grief. Fire. It was supposed to be fire. The prophecy had _said_ fire! The scrap of paper had stayed in his hand when he tossed the book back to the girl with the glasses, and Crowley had thought he understood at once what it meant. Hell would come for him, and if he wanted to keep Aziraphale safe, he had better pretend he hadn't a care in the world, so that the angel wouldn't be there when it happened.

"Do you have your half of the deal?" Michael said.

Beelzebub gestured, and a minor demon stepped out of the shadows, clutching a leather satchel. He held it up, letting the flap loosen just enough for a flicker of hellfire to curl out. Michael nodded. The demon started to walk towards the lift.

"Wait," Crowley burst out, another, worse fear suddenly taking hold of him, "what's— what's he doing with that? Where's he going?"

"We're just following your example," Beelzebub replied, eyes glinting. "Collaboration with our ancient enemieszzz. To make sure _all_ traitorszzz get what is coming to them."

The world broke apart under Crowley's feet.

"No," he croaked, "no, no, you can't— you _can't_—"

The demon disappeared into the lift. Michael offered the holy water to Hastur, who shook his head.

"I'm not going near that stuff. You do it."

"You can't," Crowley repeated hoarsely. The demons on the other side of the glass were laughing. Dagon and Hastur were lapping up his distress. Beelzebub just watched, unsmiling, unmoved. "Please!"

"Begging for your life, Crowley?" Hastur sneered. "Go on. Try harder."

He heard water sloshing into the bathtub, turned to see Michael pouring a seemingly endless stream from the glass jug. Her eyes were on him, cold and calculating, her hand steady, her expression remorseless.

"_Michael_," he tried, taking a desperate step towards her. "Michael, you can't! You can't do this to him!"

She blinked, the smallest hint of a frown creasing her brow.

"He's— he was only trying to be _good_! He did the _right thing_! He'd never betray Heaven, you can't believe that! Not after so _long_— he's tried for so long to do what you wanted! To do what She wanted!"

Crowley was babbling, pleading, but he didn't care what anyone thought now, didn't care about dignity or bravado, didn't care that he was giving all of Hell the satisfaction of seeing him break. Michael just watched him, silent and remote. The bath was almost full; the jug was almost empty. 

"Michael, please! _Stop them_!"

"Oh, this is too perfect," Dagon muttered behind him. "Do you think he'll cry?"

Crowley would cry in a heartbeat if he thought it would help, would fling himself on his knees and grovel if it would save Aziraphale, but Michael was a warrior, had always been Heaven's blade. There was nothing in her to soften at the sight of his anguish.

"It isn't _just_," he tried. "It isn't _right_. Angels destroying one of their own— it's different for us, we're _supposed_ to be like this! _You're_ supposed to be better! And he's the _best of all of you!_"

There was no water left in the jug now, but Michael still held it over the bath, her attention entirely on Crowley. The frown had deepened, creasing her perfect forehead.

"_Please_!"Crowley cried, and he did drop to his knees then, penitent and humbled as nothing but the fear of losing Aziraphale could have made him. "I'm _begging_ you. I'll jump in there all on my own, you can fucking _watch_ if you like— just _don't let them burn Aziraphale!_"

"Right, that's enough," came Beelzebub's voice, something ugly in its undercurrents. "Dunk him, lads."

The guards grabbed him by the shoulders. Crowley struggled, still looking at Michael, still hoping against hope...

But she didn't move, didn't say a word as the guards started to haul him to his feet.

It was funny, they all still called him _Crawly_ sometimes, to put him in his place, but it seemed like nobody actually remembered that he'd been a snake. Or perhaps they thought he'd spent so much time in human form, he could no longer take that shape. They were wrong. He didn't like doing it, all that stuff about crawling on your belly and so on, but he still _could_. If he had to. If he had no other choice.

There weren't a lot of choices left. And handcuffs weren't designed to keep hold of a writhing, frantic serpent.

He hit the floor with a thump and slithered away from the bath, the guards, and all the yelling that immediately broke out in his wake. The lights went out as he lashed out with a desperate flicker of power. The darkness of Hell wasn't like the darkness of Earth; even demons couldn't see through it. The shouting turned rather more alarmed.

"Stop _moving_!" he heard Beelzebub yell. "If anyone trips and falls into that bath—"

Crowley didn't need to see, not when he could feel the vibrations beneath his scales, taste the air. He made a beeline for the corridor, but just as he reached the threshold, the lights came back on, and someone seized him by the back of his neck.

Crowley hissed and flailed - and then froze, as he was clutched close to someone's chest with a whisper of, "_Quiet!_"

The courtroom was in chaos, demons rushing in to help search, Beelzebub yelling orders and Hastur shrieking with thwarted rage, but Crowley's captor was walking away from it all, taking rapid strides down the corridor, holding him in such a way that he was shielded from view. A long-fingered hand pressed the button to call the lift; Crowley stayed as still as he could, made himself as small as he could, as the seconds dragged by and the indicator began to plunge down through the floors.

There was a _ding_. The doors slid open. Right up to the last second, Crowley was waiting for the shout, the running footsteps, but even as he held his breath, the doors closed behind them, and the lift began to rise.

He uncoiled himself carefully, raised his head to look at Michael, who was studying him with narrowed eyes and a strange set to her mouth.

"Why?" he asked, coiling around her arm to get a better look at her face.

Michael pointedly shook him off. Crowley hit the ground, muttered something rude, and shifted back into his human form. When he got shakily to his feet, he realised he'd lost his sunglasses in all the hassle of shapeshifting. He really, really wished he had them to hide behind right now, with the way Michael was looking at him, looking _into_ him, as if she were studying every notch and smear and patch of tarnish on his soul.

"You're not what I thought," Michael said, finally. There was no apology in her eyes, but the disdain that had been there was gone. "Perhaps Aziraphale isn't, either."

Crowley's heart clenched. He started to pace within the confined space of the elevator, stopped when Michael glared at him.

After what felt like forever, the lift slowed down.

"Stay back and stay quiet," Michael told him, just as the doors opened.

Hellfire leapt towards Heaven's pristine ceiling, a vengeful column of fury. There was a small group gathered around it. Gabriel stood to one side, face twisted in disgust and anger. Aziraphale was between Sandalphon and Uriel, being dragged towards the fire as he dug in his heels and fought with all his strength. Crowley would have run to him, but Michael swept out ahead, strode across the floor.

"Stop." 

The command rang through the halls of Heaven. Gabriel swung towards her in astonishment. The others froze in place. Aziraphale immediately kicked Sandalphon in the shin.

"Michael?" Gabriel stared at her as she bore down on them, Crowley trailing in her wake. "What's going on?"

Michael didn't answer, her attention on Aziraphale. She gestured pointedly to Sandalphon and Uriel, who reluctantly released his arms.

"Tell me," Michael said, looking back at Gabriel. "Did he beg for his life?"

Gabriel scowled.

"No," he said, "he wouldn't shut up about—"

Michael stepped to the side, gesturing to Crowley.

"Him?"

Gabriel's eyes nearly bugged out of his face. Aziraphale made a soft sound that was almost a cry, and the next thing Crowley knew, his arms were full of frantic, clingy angel.

"Crowley—" Aziraphale choked into his shoulder. "They said you were—"

Crowley crushed Aziraphale close and made up his mind right there and then that he would fight every angel and Archangel in Heaven if he had to. He glared over the top of Aziraphale's head to make that clear to everyone present, but no-one was looking at him. They were all staring at Michael.

"What in Heaven, Michael?" Gabriel demanded. "We all agreed—"

"That the demon had corrupted Aziraphale beyond salvation, yes. I don't think that's the case," Michael said. "If anything, it seems to be the other way around."

Gabriel's jaw hit the floor.

"That's impossible."

Aziraphale raised his head, looking searchingly into Crowley's eyes. Crowley swallowed, still afraid they were both about to die, trying to convey everything he hadn't said using only his gaze. The ghost of a smile touched Aziraphale's lips. He pressed his hand lightly against Crowley's cheek, then stepped back and turned, shifting so they were side by side. A moment later, his arm threaded through Crowley's, locking them tightly together.

"Impossible or not," Michael replied, "I just witnessed a demon beg for an angel's life and offer his own in exchange."

Aziraphale's arm tightened on Crowley's. Crowley wished for the ground to swallowed him up - or the clouds, or whatever - as Gabriel and the others all turned to stare at him.

"They can't do that," Uriel stammered, shocked and maybe even afraid.

"I assure you, they can," said Michael. "This one can, at least."

"But— but what does that _mean_?" Gabriel burst out, looking desperate and furious and outraged. "This isn't how it works—"

"It's not how we _thought_ things worked," Michael said quietly. "What else have we got wrong?"

There was a fraught silence. Gabriel had gone as white as a sheet, doubt blossoming over his arrogant face. Uriel looked like someone who needed a stiff drink. Even Sandalphon seemed disconcerted.

"We can't _be_ wrong," Gabriel said, but there was a yawning terror under the words. "Michael, we—"

"Perhaps we should discuss this further in private," Michael cut him off. She shot Aziraphale and Crowley an unreadable look. "You can go now."

"Oh, well, thank you," Aziraphale replied, not even bothering to hide his sarcasm, and while Crowley was still gaping, he steered them both towards the exit.

Behind them, Gabriel's voice rose in what sounded like a meltdown of epic proportions, but nobody called them back. Crowley shot a bewildered glance at Aziraphale, whose mouth was set in a determined line as he guided them both towards the escalators.

"Don't look back," he murmured.

"Why not?"

"I don't know, it just seems like tempting fate. Orpheus and all that."

Crowley started to argue that Orpheus had certainly not been walking out of _Heaven_, but decided that comparative mythology could wait. They stepped onto the escalator and began to descend to Earth. The voices of arguing Archangels faded away. Crowley took his first free breath since he'd opened his eyes in Hell. Aziraphale was still clinging tightly to his arm.

The second they reached the lobby, Crowley snapped his fingers, and then they were in the bookshop.

Some of the shelves were crooked, books on the floor as if there'd been a struggle. Crowley felt rage belatedly rise up in his chest, but before he could dwell on it, Aziraphale turned to him, his thin veneer of calm cracking open, and after that they didn't speak for a long time, just held each other tightly and shook until they were both exhausted from it.

"What," Crowley said finally, slightly muffled against Aziraphale's hair, but with no intention of moving, possibly ever, "the flying _fuck_ just happened?"

"They tried to kill you," Aziraphale said into Crowley's collar. His voice caught. "When they told me about the holy water—"

"They tried to kill _you_!" Crowley replied, clinging even tighter, if that were possible. "When I saw the fire—"

It hit him then, and he let go of Aziraphale, fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of paper. He stared at the writing on it for several seconds.

"You obnoxious old _witch_," he snarled at it. "You couldn't have just made it _clear—_"

"Crowley?" Aziraphale reached for the paper. "What on Earth is—"

The prophecy caught alight, burning away to nothing before Aziraphale could read it.

"Nothing," Crowley said, dusting the ashes off his hands. "It doesn't matter. Angel—"

He reached out, cupped Aziraphale's cheek with his hand.

"Listen, I— there's something I should've— ages ago—"

Aziraphale took a shaky breath, smiled, covered Crowley's fingers with his own.

"Yes," he said. "Me too."

Crowley kissed him.


End file.
